


Contact

by JanuaryBlue



Series: And so the Dark did covet the Light [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Ascended Ascians have Issues, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Begging, But she's still gonna try, F/F, Femslash February, Igeyorhm has Issues, Multiple Orgasms, Okay I lied there might be a plot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Temperature Play, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22950541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: Igeyorhm knows not why she goes into the tavern and beds a stranger. Mayhap it is because she can tell. How Lahabrea quietly scorns her, silent disdain towards the single fragment that was her own soul, while he obsessed over that Warrior of Light,seven times Rejoined–You know why you go into the tavern and bed a stranger. Because her hair is blue and her eyes are fierce; her body lean and lithe and her attitude charming. If you hadn’t been the Warrior of Light, if she hadn’t been just some stranger in a tavern, you might have taken her properly –Or doesshetakeyou?
Relationships: Igeyorhm/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Series: And so the Dark did covet the Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649320
Comments: 5
Kudos: 46





	Contact

As soon as you see her, you know you want her.

Blue hair spilling over her shoulder. Slender lips lax and just barely downturned in a silent disdain. In her eyes an elegant, regal bearing that she carried in the whole of her body. Standing, leaning over on a wall as she ran her gaze over

It just barely glances over you, but you feel no recognition.

Being the Warrior of Light is hard. Finding someone to warm your bed when you’re a hero is even harder. You don’t want to hear rumors or bragging or worry about some poison in your cup –

Even as you think of it, your eyes draw back to your drink. You down it, let it burn your throat just a bit – not enough to get you drunk, not nearly, but perhaps a touch tipsy. Warm and feeling lighter and stronger and braver than you are.

Approaching her feels like nothing at all, pace drawing you towards her from to the corner of the room. The sounds of the tavern seem to fade as you approach, and the sound of her own regal silence growing greater. Overwhelming.

It occurs to you, when you stop by her side, and her eyes latch onto you, watching in detached expectation, that you don’t actually have anything to say to her. Besides, maybe, _fuck me._

The way her pupils dilate, lashes lowering ever so slightly as those lips curve up at one end, has you amending that line of thought quickly. _Fuck me, **please.**_

“Here alone, are we?”

You almost start at the sound of her voice – you’re not sure how you expected it to sound, but this is… it suits her, you suppose. Perhaps you just weren’t expecting someone like her to speak first. She’s even more beautiful up close; the lines of her face smooth but elegant; a sharp, angled jawline that led into a strong chin, lips perfectly smooth and full just above it. A long, elegant nose – almost patrician, straight and narrow.

Eyes as green as her hair is blue; bright and vivid and helplessly alluring. Just as much as her low, almost somber tone had sounded – filled with a strange sort of strength, clearly feminine and yet cold and cool with a refined cadence.

“Yes,” You say, and it sounds like nothing compared to – to – just, to _her._ But you have some pride of your own, so you straighten, meet her eyes, and keep your expression from going slack and making you out to be a fool.

“And you would have it not be so?” She is surely smiling at you, now, but her lips are barely lifted, as though such an expression is not worth her effort.

It is. It would look glorious on her. But if she doesn’t think she has a reason to smile, now, well then. It should be easy enough to give her one, no?

Holding out a hand, you tilt your head to the side and wink. “Same as you, I should think.”

For a terrible moment you wonder if she might not take it. Rejection is ever so hard to bear… especially when, as the Warrior of Light, you’re generally not accustomed to being – well not _looked down upon,_ but… looked upon normally. Without reverence.

…It’s a good thing you’re not speaking aloud.

Something soft and smooth touches your hands – leather, it seems, but finer than any you’ve ever encountered, nearly shiny in its unnaturally unbroken, un-weathered texture. Gloves.

“And you suspect you can show me a worthwhile time.” She seems to wonder aloud, almost as an afterthought.

You flash her your closest approximation to a charming smile. It’s not something you’re used to, so you keep it slight. “Oh, I know what I can do. It’s you who I _suspect_ can make it worth my while.”

There’s something in the air – a shifting of the mood, though you hear no sound and do not see her lips part, you get the impression of a faint, low laughter.

“Such confidence. I am a stranger to you, and you approach me so, assuming I hold like desires.”

Pausing a moment, you consider her words. Glance over her. Her appearance, her voice, the way she held herself and phrased herself. Self-assured and yet contained with perfect control, not a gesture or pitch out of place. Everything exactly as she wills it. Nothing to give away her intensity but the strength of her gaze and the air around her, some unnameable presence she held which drew you in not unlike you drew challenges to yourself.

It’s not hard to admit you find it all _painfully_ alluring.

“If I’m wrong,” You say, grasping at her hand in a decisive movement, “I am _also_ certain that you will say so.”

“More presumptions.” The smile does not reach her lips, but it does reach her voice.

“You still haven’t told me I’m wrong.”

“Indeed, that very notion was one of your assumptions.” When you laugh you think you see the edges of her melting at the warmth. Unfortunately, it’s probably just your cheeks heating up.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the pressure. Maybe it’s because she’s beautiful and charming and you just don’t want to be alone tonight.

Maybe it’s just _her._

Whatever it is, you reach out again, grasping at her arm just barely. “Well, then, allow me to correct myself. I would very much like to bring you back to my room and spend the night with you. Are you amenable?”

Asking outright sends your heart pounding in your chest. That face doesn’t change its expression, still regal and distant and perhaps faintly amused. It’s a strange rush that goes through you; the thrill of putting yourself out there.

And yet the idea that she might tell you no doesn’t enter your mind for a moment.

Her covered fingers curl over your own, chilled from the night air. You see more of them, midnight black, as she gestures towards the hallway at the far end of the inn. “By all means; proceed.”

So you do. With a strange hesitance you find yourself leading her down the hall to your room – though you are less leading than simply walking forward while she strides on beside you. You wonder if she doesn’t know where your room is, already.

If she hadn’t been watching you, too.

But those are thoughts that can wait until you’ve opened the door – thankfully, you remember where you put the key instead of fumbling for it – perhaps forever. After all, why should it matter, when you don’t know each other and are almost certain not to meet again?

Her hand drifts from your hand, up your arm, to your shoulder, as you twist the key in the lock, shove the door open with perhaps a touch too much impatience. There’s a sound, like a shifting of breath next to you, that might have been the start of a laugh, but you only rush in and start pulling clothes off.

She doesn’t begrudge your hurry, not at all – but you hear her close and lock the door behind you as she walks up to the bed beside you. The footsteps you hear are soft; she must have left her boots at the door.

You eye her from the corner of your gaze as she watches you with only the vaguest hints of interest. At your arched brow, she merely tugs her robes forwards just a bit – enough to reveal long slits at the sides that go down the entire length of the garment, held together by little ties she swiftly undoes with one long motion, splitting the robes.

Under which she is apparently completely naked. Well, then. She knew what she had come here for, it seems.

“Do you mind helping?” If she wants to do this she could at least _act_ like it.

Her eyes glide over you heavily. Reaching out you see the tips of her gloves – she’s keeping them on, really? – have sharp metal adornments, like claws. They hadn’t been there before.

She hooks one underneath your undergarments and, just as you realize it, tugs forward. The edge of it slices straight through the fabric and it falls right apart; she reaches around you, keeping her hands close to your body, to clip at them from the back, baring you completely.

You dig your feet from your own boots and put your arms on either side of her, pressing her back into the bed, where she slides with no resistance. As you move forward you scoot up, straddling her with your legs, as well. For her part, she sits at first with her feet on the bed, legs curled in front of her, then she leans back and back, allowing you to tower over her.

The way she looks up at you, like you might as well not be there at all, like you’re an especially bitter wine that’s grown warm in her cup, makes you want to shake her. She just lays there, arms placid at her sides, like she’s expecting you do to something.

“Hey,” You say, for lack of a better word, and when that doesn’t garner any reaction you lift your hands up to hold the sides of her face, _“Hey!”_

She stares at you with eyes grey just bordering on green. A mess of colors, stormy yet refined, fiercely controlled. Why won’t they widen? Why won’t they _look at you?_ Is it too much to ask for her to look at you while you fuck?

Does she not like what she sees? If so, why bother following you back here at all?

“Why did you come if you’re just going to lie there?” Digging your fingers into her cheeks, into skin soft and smooth to the touch, yielding just barely to your nails, you hiss at her, “Do you want me or not?”

She blinks up at you.

“Eagerness,” Her voice comes almost stilted, “Has proved itself faulty, in my hands.”

“I’ll be the fault in your hands,” You say, closing your face to hers, letting your breath brush her cheek.

For a moment, she pauses, silent, eyes closed. The moment hangs in the air, silent, drifting in perfect stillness as you hold your breath unknowingly, fixed upon her features, impassive and unchanging; beautiful but indecipherable.

A lock of your hair falls forward, onto her cheek.

Just like that, she flinches, and the spell is broken. Eyes widen, storm pulled open, yawning to accept you –

Her hands clutch at you, hard, almost cold, and you know you have won her. You know not what you have won, but that it is her. Her attention on you, her eyes on your body, her hands reaching out, grasping for purchase, her body open and leaning into your hands.

Those gloves roam over your body, your sides; the material of them is almost clingy in its slickness, gliding over your skin like liquid, so easily you think it might catch. It’s only the metal that traces over you, sharp lines almost careless in their easy freedom, just enough for you to feel the press in intimate detail – but not enough to scratch.

It's – it’s good, _quite_ good.

“Keep,” You say, tripping over your breath when those claws pause, line curling into a point of piercing pressure against your skin for just a moment, “Keep doing that.”

You watch her tongue run over her lips, pink, almost red in the darkness, pale against the dark of whatever lip stain she’s used. You’re not sure if it tastes of anything. You haven’t tried.

No time like the present.

Her hands drift to the small of your back, cloth and claw alike slipping over bare flesh to settle behind you.

She _yanks_ you down –

And as you’re pulled down your legs part, angled just enough not to cause discomfort, but well wide enough that your sex is opened, slickness free to meet the dry, warm material of her robes.

The fabric is finely woven, moreso than anything you’ve ever felt. Smooth and perfect, with no stray strands or fabric out of place, almost threadbare, but clearly well made. Its texture is made _intimately_ known to you as she pulls you close, hands splayed over your thighs, pulling your legs further apart.

With the motion your sex is ground into her, just enough friction between the fabric to spark the heat of desire – but her arms hold your hips firmly in place.

You’d not remembered meeting someone with _this_ sort of strength; for the first time that night the possibility occurs to you that you might have taken on more than you realize. Taken to bed more than you realized.

Or perhaps even offered yourself up to be taken, instead.

Igeyorhm knows not why she takes a stranger to bed. Neither does she know the reason _you_ take _her_ to bed. The more she touches you, the more she grinds you down against herself and feels you slip your eager, wanting, hot hands under her robes to grope at a form that had not known another’s touch for centuries –

The less she finds she cares.

It’s almost thrilling, being close to someone like this, after so long. The feel of your skin under her hands, flowing over her roaming fingertips like heated water, is unlike any experience of her bygone years is this life, in this shard of her life.

She knows, of course – has memories, fleeting things, of a life long past.

Igeyorhm the driven. Igeyorhm the passionate. Igeyorhm the _Martyr_. Amaurot’s patron saint of lost causes, of problems with no solutions, of unspeakably complex conundrums one or another citizen or group had caught themselves up into.

Igeyorhm who helped them even when it seemed impossible, who worked with the most stubborn of creations and designs to salvage something workable, who championed on the behalf of the most dubious or difficult individuals, who took on the tasks her fellow Convocation members found distasteful.

The Igeyorhm that Lahabrea admired. Once upon a dream, in a city far, far away – _back when the world was whole…_

Never did she more despise the Unsundered than when they fell into those moments of pitiful reminiscence. Not the least because she could not take part of it – what could she add, being only a pale fragment of her past self? What had she to offer them, sundered as she was? Weak. Lacking in memory, fragmented, faint – and in experience, completely irreplaceable. Innately inferior, she will never be more, and still she tries – still they _pretend._

Oh, they pretend, but she can see it, plain as day; Lahabrea does not look at her the way he had looked at _her,_ the Martyr in her memories _._ None of them do. They hardly respect _each other_ as much, but to the rest, the ones they had uplifted by their own hands – at best, they are children in need of guiding. There for company, for familiarity, for reminding them of the pitiful state their fellow Convocation members had been reduced to.

The Unsundered do not speak of their Ascended colleagues the way they speak of their Amaurotine counterparts –

The way they speak of _that one._ The “Bringer of Light”. The way Lahabrea dwells and frets and _crows_ that he will not be defeated again. The way Elidibus insists not to antagonize a potential ally, someone so powerful, someone so _Gifted._

Someone _seven times rejoined._

Like every other person on this _Source_ which they labor endlessly to repair. Which the Warrior of Light has _thwarted,_ already. This ally of Hydaelyn botches their plans and the Unsundered do not hesitate to fawn –

Igeyorhm, the perpetual martyr, fails, and – well. It was to be expected. She is _Sundered._ Inherently less, with no recourse, inherently flawed and faulty through no failing on her own part. She is simply _not enough._ It is a lost cause. The Thirteenth cannot be Rejoined, and we must needs attend to the other worlds, first, until we can find some solution…

Perhaps she beds you because she wants to see why these people – seemingly as foolish and selfish as all other mortals – are so much more worthy. Seven times more worthy, than the people of the world she ruined. The people who failed to so much as oppose her in the least.

Perhaps she merely wanted to know if _you_ could oppose her. That stoic aura, that indifferent bearing that seemed to bely no small measure of ferocity. The people of the Thirteenth could not match her, and Lahabrea does not want to; but you…

When you approach her, she can tell – beside the rampant desire in your eyes which calls strangely to her soul – you are Gifted, indeed. Even in your brief exchange, your words – short, but not stiff – and mannerisms, the way you reach out to her, tugs at her. Reminds her what it is like to be wanted. If she has _ever_ known what it is like.

Perhaps she’s just playing the Martyr, again. Always fighting for lost causes. Putting her faith in mortals, _again,_ knowing what she knows.

Diving into the fire, even when she is made of ice.

And _oh,_

Your flames are nothing short of _divine._

That heated flesh under her gloves is nearly searing to the touch, even with the barrier, metal claws heating quickly at the contact. The gasp she draws from you when she drags those pretty talons over your skin, how you gasp and stammer encouragement, pleading for more.

Clutching at her, fondling, fond, eager to return her ministrations even as you fall apart at her touch. A sweet and generous lover, even to a woman you do not know.

Once more, Igeyorhm is lost, and she knows it. She lets her hands fall back for a moment, just feeling your own hot fingers grope over her; first teasing into her sides, cupping and flowing over curves as you pull them along the topography of her body.

Before you have time to miss them, she lets her aether flow freely through her. The air cools, which you might not notice, but her _hands –_

A martyr’s hands, newly bare, made for saving. Made for lost causes and foolish crusades, for her own downfall by the faith she holds, in others or in herself. Seven times rejoined – mayhap –

These hands may yet create.

You are made intimately aware of their chill as she reaches back for you, for your bared skin so open and wanting for her touch. There’s a jerk and a gasp that she draws with her touch, a flinch instinctive to the contact of ice with bare skin, but her fingers are soft, caressing, and your resistance melts as her own cold is attuned to your heat.

It is the same for her – the pads of her fingertips burn on your flesh; like dipping them into molten lava, smooth and yielding to her touch. Your sides have such an easy give to them that pressing into them, dragging her finger along the curve of your waist is impossibly tempting and she does so with a sigh, delighted to receive one from you in return.

She lets her fingers dance over you, tracing nonsensical lines and patterns, pulling palms back so her fingers only faintly trace, tickling over you in cool trails that seem to stroke through you, a chill that goes deep into your flesh, your bones, your _soul_ –

A welcome chill. A coolness that comes to sore muscles and heated tension, sweet relief and enticing tenderness all at once. A tease that still reaches all the way through, strokes places you didn’t know you had felt so tense, brings awareness to knots and coils within you that didn’t know existed.

Something flows from you, or perhaps into you – a warmth and a coldness all at once, that seems to flood and fade as her fingertip drawl over you in those light and barest of touches over your skin. It’s like she’s drawing your heartbeat from your chest, your heated blood, your troubles and worries and frustrations just melt away the feeling of ice tracing over you, warming to the touch as much as it chills your skin.

You melt onto her and she lets you. Falling down into robes so much softer than you had imagined they would be.

Slipping your hands under her robes, you try – do you ever try – to stop yourself from clutching, from clinging, while she seems to unwind you with just her fingertips. You stroke over her own flesh, smooth and cool to the touch, shuddering above her even as your hands wander.

Her breasts are noticeable even beneath her robes, your face brushing over them with how you’d bent in half, your hips drawn low on her thighs as you slump against her. Her hands don’t stop their delightful – thrilling – _terrifying?_ – wandering, so in between the shudders you pull yourself tight against her, squeezing tight.

With no small amusement does she notice how you have curled into her, pressing her breasts together and, indirectly, into your face. Tremors trace through her as your fingers press against the soft, yielding flesh there, kneading as though you could imbue affection, care, and raw desire into her flesh with each press.

Igeyorhm watches you lay the side of your face on her chest, nuzzling in, and feels her heart lean back towards you. Her hands unfurl to hold over your flesh, splayed wide and possessive and comforting. The stroke of your thumb at the side of her chest all too tender, too sweet and savoring. Slow enough that the pads of your thumb might catch on skin stretched thin over the swell of breast like raw silk.

She pushes you up, noticing with undeniable satisfaction how you gravitate back in clear want of contact, but the touch of hands cool once more upon you has you stilled in place. Hanging above her, caught in the air like something light and delicate, caught in the breeze –

The breeze is your breath, stolen from between your lips as you choke on your own reactions. Her fingers trickle down your shoulders to your own chest, following the curve of supple flesh and skin prickling at contact – electric to the touch.

Palming over nipples long since pebbled with the cold, the breeze catches, you are frozen above her, no longer drifting, air whistling in your mouth as you draw it in, high and sharp. She draws her hands further down, catching your nipple between her fingers, pressing together gently on the sides. The cold of it is more than enough stimulation to burn, sparking an intense need that has you leaning into the ice even as it burns you all the more.

Seemingly sensing your eagerness, she bends a knee, lifting her leg up just enough to press between your thighs – but a moment, but a brush – and it’s enough to send a jolt through you, a reminder of the arousal, the need her hands had kindled.

It falls away before you can chase it, as she picks up where she’d left off.

The chill meets your flesh, hot and radiating warmth, soft to her hands, with a pleasant give that fits well easily in her palm. Tensing fingers, drawing them back and letting her nails brush against your skin, gilt with freezing aether, trailing points of pure electric chill, enticement that taps at the edges of your awareness, testing and probing.

A pinch, a brush, a stroke over your breast with the full length of her hand – a squeeze that grips you in ice, sensation encompassing for the briefest of heartbeats – a hand drifting down to your sides, again, playing and toying and caressing in infuriating caresses that enflame even as she draws the chill over your flushed, sweat-dampened skin.

You’ve had quite enough of this. Touch and tease and grasp and play – you’re more than wet enough, more than ready, naked above her as your hands only faintly roam her robed form. Her lips only barely curve at you, eyes narrowed in focus, unrelenting in her dedication.

You bring your arms together in front of you and part them, brushing her own aside so that you can fall down on her, catching wrists to pin by her head while you draw in to claim her lips.

Her mouth is opened in a laugh so rich and full you can taste it. Swallowing it easily, just before her tongue darts in to probe through your mouth, lapping over teeth and lips, strangely cool to the touch. You salivate, strangely, and find yourself sucking over it, docile in this clash, savoring her flavor as she licks over you.

There’s no resistance from her wrist, no tension or movement in her body, and yet you pull away, panting, eyes glazed, face so hot you can’t understand how _cool_ she remains, eyes flashing at you like stormy skies in warning. Just as you part from cool lips you watch a strand of saliva form between your wide-open mouth and her own barely parted one, trembling lightly as you pant.

It's she who breaks it, licking over blue-hued lips with that clever tongue, darting and precise. A strange combination of slick and sinuous muscle that was cool to the touch, bending and writhing in your mouth, exerting influence even as it explored with seemingly intent strokes.

“Impatient.” She states; it’s not a question, and her tone is only faintly teasing.

You feel her arms shift, like snowdrift moving beneath you, and then icy fingers thread with your own. It is as invigorating as it is surprising, the squeeze of her hands entirely unexpected as you hover ilms from her face. Your breath on her cheek so hot you wonder if she might even melt.

Distantly, you wonder if her breath is not just as warm, too.

You’ve only just noticed your trembling. Is it from the effort of holding yourself upright above her – the cold? Excitement? Impatience, as she says?

When she leans up from beneath you, pushing you up as well, letting your chest rest on hers as you hang limply, you realize you haven’t been the one taking here, at all. You’re the one being taken.

Distantly, as she turns you to settle you beneath her, lying your bare form out with elegant hands that bely strength greater than you had ever suspected, humming as you squirm under her adjustments, stroking and cooing at you to relax, you realize you don’t at all dislike this.

“You would not deny me my part, would you, dear creature?” Her voice is almost distant as her hands roam; she settles her robe, slit at the sides, so that her bare thighs sit just on your hips.

There’s a faint wetness on your abdomen that can only be one thing – warmer that the rest of her unnaturally cool body. She, too, _wants._ Desires.

“I,” You won’t be a lacking partner, not even to a stranger, “I – shall I not – would you not have me – ”

“I would have you, yes.” She says, cupping your cheek with one of those cool, lovely hands, heavenly to lean into with your cheeks flaming from her advances. You’ve no idea why. She is barely advancing at all, merely asserting herself, gently and courteously.

She merely touches, strokes, takes her time enjoying you. She enjoys you. Wants you.

It strikes you that this is what it feels like to be wanted. That she is not thinking of her own pleasure because this _is_ her pleasure, because her eyes are fixed on you and you alone, that the hand on your face presses back as you lean into it, fingers curling slightly in joyful possession.

Lightning strikes in those eyes again, a brilliant gleam as she draws the back of her fingers up along your breasts, nails just pressing into your collarbone, a moment of a bite before they trail over the delicate skin of your neck. Drawing over your throat, just brushing, the hint of contact that rises up again to cup the curve of your jaw and fix you in place to look at her.

She meets your eyes and you feel a knee between your legs, spreading them – the barrier of her robe flared out to cover you both while your bare skin meets hers beneath it. Raising it up, up, just enough to brush at the apex of your thighs, her other leg draped wide over your calf, catching it between her foot and knee, pinning it.

With a growing dread that is not dread you watch her lashes lower, lips curve in wicked satisfaction as you start to squirm and find yourself pinned – hips desperate to buck against the thigh waiting so close below, so perfectly primed for grinding – and untouched, contact just out of reach.

You open your mouth to make a demand that dies on your lips as she descends to your neck, kissing open-mouthed, wide, pressing tongue to racing pulse and teeth just barely into sinew, just enough for you to be aware. She has you in her jaws now, slavering over you, leaving a trail of wetness that chills you all the more. It’s like each breath chills you from within your throat and without it, cool air kissing at your neck where she has left herself.

Every pant only reminds you all the more of her presence over you, that she is waiting with lips and teeth and tongue, she has you beneath her right where she wants you. All you know to do with your hands is bury them in her hair, softer and smoother to the touch, feathery and light and lovely to hold.

Her mouth opens wide on your neck, lips sealing against your skin and you feel yourself _throb,_ the beat of your pulse beneath your skin – as surely as she can feel it, hear it, pounding as it does in your ears. Her hands hold your face up, now firmer in their grip, tight with a fierce, almost frenetic energy.

You feel it as she sucks _hard,_ drawing flesh taut to her mouth, blood pooling at the surface, certain to leave a mark. There’s the same coldness as always, like ice pressed to your skin, but with her lips so tight on you, flesh almost pinched as it swells into her mouth, tender, delicate skin tugging at your neck.

Breaths once heavy and full bodied now come in trembling gasps, wavering in your throat as she keeps you pinned, neck wide open for her consumption. You feel it, too, you do – how slick, foreign muscle digs into your flesh, dragging across it in smooth, full motions. Tasting and savoring even as she sucks harder, your neck growing tighter in the cavern of her mouth.

For several more heartbeats – many more, at the rate your heart races, her fingers seemingly tightening, brimming with a match to your energy, itching, almost – she keeps at it, until finally pulling back to eye her work. Smoothing her hands through your hair. Heedless of how your fingers catch on the trails of her hair, as though to drag her back in.

“Won’t you,” She hears you whimper with breath you don’t have, “Won’t you – please – ”

_Please._

Igeyorhm pulls her leg up, bare flesh meeting your raw sex, so heated and ready and as of yet _untouched,_ and listens to the sounds you make as your words fail you. As wetness spreads on her knee pressing against delicate skin, smooth and spreading easily as she rubs into it.

“Please…?” She prompts, rubbing against the whole of your sex in a wide motion with full contact.

The whine you make in response, the way your hips pull into her pressing hands, tickles a delight in her chest, fluttering and fierce. Your hands soon follow, reaching up to grasp at her breasts, her sides, her hips – any part of her you can hold for yourself.

Slowly she grinds, painfully slowly, listening to you warble and whimper wordlessly, coherent speech lost to keening need. And still you reach out with clinging fingers, curling over her form with such intent, as though by touch alone you can impart desire, satisfaction, press sensation into her skin as she had touched you with the essence of ice itself.

Igeyorhm notices, for the first time –

You are attractive, yes; that judgement had been a simple calculation in her mind as she observed you before you had even approached. But beneath her like this, arms outstretched, face flushed and panting open-mouthed in want, begging with every breath as you cannot with words –

You are _endearing._ Impossibly so _._ The Gift coats your every word and gasp, gathering about you, inundated in your soul and being she can almost _see_ it coating you like a halo.

It’s in your eyes that stay transfixed on her as though you’re watching ice melt and drip from stalactites, dewing in drops that shine against the sun. It’s in your hands that grasp as surely as her had before, covering her form as though you mean to hold the cold itself in your embrace.

"Please – oh, _please!”_

It's in your voice that pleads for her so sweetly, in a coo that almost reminds her of chiming echoes, of a language unspoken for millennia.

The Martyr finds, for all her self-sacrifice, she yet _wants._

Parting from you just for a moment to leaning in close, supporting herself with one arm as she draws the other low. Pressing against you close enough to cover your sweat-dewed and air-chilled body with smooth black fabric, a soft material specially engineered to maintain comfortable temperatures. The first thing she would show you how to Create, if she –

If –

_“Touch me,”_ Your breath steals her thoughts away, lips so close she can feel you speak the words. 

The need overwhelms her, seeping into her like your body heat, powerful and radiant, unrelenting even in the face of overwhelming chill.

With two fingers she spreads your sex and strokes over your folds with a third, her touch direct and filled with intent, nothing like the rutting of before. Flames licking at her fingertips, slickness coating her, melting her, electric against your sex so long deprived.

After so much rubbing and friction, fingers tracing around your clit in delicious stimulation, the arousal built finally coming to crest at the point of sweet contact drawn along your flesh. Your heart pulses through each fold and crevice of your sex. Throbbing, aching, roiling at her touch.

Flitting about to draw choked moans from your mouth, she draws to your neck, kissing consecration over you with closed, chaste lips. _Zodiark,_ if only she could hear more and more of these blessed sounds, of your breath catching as you rush to catch it, stuttered gasps that warble with her fingers dancing below, low, humming notes like heaven at her lips.

You cry for her in sounds like prayer and your body _weeps_ for her, anointing her hand generously as she plies around your entrance. You _pulse,_ hips bucking to press into her hand to chase your release but she holds you fast, unfaltering.

“More,” You _keen,_ and she knows truest desire.

There is no resisting such compulsion, no answer to your call but to obey. The first finger goes in without a hint of resistance, slick and well coated by your own want, and with it does she know you from the inside out. Curling it, shifting and sliding within you, mapping you even as you clutch her fiercely, desperate for her touch to return at your clit. She thumbs just beside it, pressing, wriggling, just a _hint_ of incitement that has you spasming around her all the more, glorious and encompassing.

She licks a line up your throat, savoring the taste of whimpered pleas – her _lips,_ her _hands,_ oh, how you love her touch, how you love the feel of her – aether bleeding sentiment into her where your words fail you. Another finger goes in without even a thought, spreading you just beside the first, pulling further moans as it bends and presses from within.

“ _Ohhh…_ Please…” You do not know what you beg for, only that you want it. A want that builds and builds in you as she adds a third finger, stretching you wide, _delicious,_ smooth and easy as it glides against your walls, as soft as the rest of her.

As unyielding from within as she is without.

On your neck, her lips still. Pull back.

“More, you ask.” She breathes, inexplicably, hand curling inside you, so smooth against your walls you barely feel it. But as she _pulls,_ slowly, the pressure becomes clear. “ _Tell me._ Do you enjoy this?”

“Yes,” The pull draws further, pressing just enough against you to have an obscene _presence_ inside you, “I – _I do.”_

It’s not enough. The movement slows and the sound of her waiting silence fills the room, the furnace of your desire exposed to cool air, penetrated by chilled fingers, driving you forward for the sake of release. Fading away, curling back, denying. Waiting.

“I love it,” The admission cracks through your throat, raw with supplication, “It’s – it’s good, it feels, so _so_ good. You – you are _so good.”_

She inhales, sharply, in a sound like ice snapping, crackling with grace into myriad glassy fragments under heavy pressure.

“Every time you touch me it’s like – it’s like – ”

There are no words for it; the feeling is electric and cold. Igniting and freezing. It stirs your lust while leaving you almost sore, as though struck by lightning, nerves alight in fierce afterglow. Between your legs her hand soothes as much as it stirs, fueling further pleasures than you had dreamt of at first contact.

“ _Please – **please**_ give me mo-”

Your request is granted as you ask it; she is less patient, even, than you. Her thumb swipes over your clit, stroking over delectable heat, budding embers that reach up into her touch, floating, hovering just on the border of climax. Your flesh rises to meet her, hot and throbbing, and the point of contact burns in oncoming satisfaction.

Inside you, slipping out deliciously, her fingers thrust and curl. There’s a pulsing, a tight need that builds in your lower half in time with her movements. As she drags along you it swells, coiled and powerful, drawing your awareness entirely until her thumb returns to your clit, this time pressing as it brushes your senses. The singular point of your pleasure brightens fiercely, rising to the touch, sending you wailing, hips desperate to press you into the sensation.

You are only barely aware of her fingers that stroke your cheek in time with her hand below; your attention drawn from it only because her thumb on your clit has stilled.

“Do you mean to come with my hand inside you?” It’s hardly a matter of question. She _has_ to feel it, the twitching, the throbbing, how you _clench_ around her, desperate, the whole of your body thudding in anticipation.

At your silence, her fingers stop. Smoothing out from the beckoning gestures, the tense weight built from them all but dissipating. _“Do you?”_

Your next breath comes, heavy and wanting; you’re sure you mean to move your hands but there’s no response, almost as though they’ve grown numb with the cold. Stuck grasping against her robes, tight and whitened with the force of your grip.

“Yes,” The choked reply matches the jerk of your hips, pointless though it may be with how she holds you down.

“ _More._ ” She says, and you think it might be mocking were it not for the severity of her words. “Tell me more.” She commands.

Her eyes seize you, deep and colorless like a gathering storm, weight heavy in the very air before you. Ferocious and demanding, brooking no argument. _Alive_ and narrow with what might have looked like delight had her brows not been drawn together in tight consternation. Lips as smooth as the draw of her hand along your sex, just barely wedged apart.

The very image of a driven, passionate lover, intent on her partner’s gratification. Intent on having it in her power to grant or deny, your fulfillment entirely at her mercy.

And how merciful is she? You cannot but discover.

“Please,” Your voice is nearing hoarseness at all she’s pulled from you – and still, you give her more, a mirror image of self-sacrifice, devoted entirely to your lover’s satisfaction, “I want to – please make me come. Your hand - _please_ – ”

Her hand comes alive beneath you, and with the return of its fervent caress your coherence is entirely lost.

“Please – touch,” Still, you try, ever grasping at the ephemeral, seeking to surpass this limit, the trial of this indulgence she grants. Still the name you want escapes you, having never been known. “I need – _you!”_

“So you say.” You hear her breathe like a whisper on your lips, leaning in further, pressing _harder._

Hazily the thought forms as soon as it is swept away by rising fervor – of course you say so. Of course you need her. How could she possibly bear any doubt?

Reaching inside you and pulling at your walls like a bowstring she means to snap, tension rising and rising once more at her thrusts. Bending digits to drag along your insides in glorious, tight yearning, working the knot of pleasure into your sex once more.

The caress returns at your clit, and any words you might have to say are lost, any thoughts strewn about and cast aside by the storm as lightning strikes in their place. Your excitement concentrates from within and without, a singular point of white-hot delight, coaxed forth by the slip of her thumb against you.

So tight, sliding so closely the print nearly grates against you, there’s hardly any breath left to escape, wailing rising from your chest unabated.

She can feel it cresting just as you can, as close as you are; aether bright and concentrated – _seven times rejoined,_ that ugly whisper reminds her – radiant as your flesh, hot and swelling, a dam ready to burst at the slightest of touches.

“Are you,” Igeyorhm asks as she feels you tense below her, around her, all hers, “Are you going to come for me?”

The sight of your face beneath her, flushed and panting, eyes bright with oncoming satisfaction, mouth wide and wanting, is the most beautiful thing she remembers seeing besides thousands of years of faded half-memories. The feel of your hands at her hips, clenching even as you squeeze on her fingers, tight and trembling with a frenetic energy she can feel coursing through you.

_“Yes,”_ You whine, so very sweetly, and she decides this is her favorite word to hear from you. She decides she will hear it again.

And the face you make when you come for her, mewling as you do in a bare, trembling voice, features wide in building rapture, strikes her like nothing before. Spasming about her fingers, flesh pulsing and tightening as the pleasure swells, a high she can ride off aether alone, as radiant as it is euphoric.

She watches you brighten in the haze of your peak, the exquisite sensation her hands had wrought on you, and dull into a steady glow that emanates from you all the same. It feels like being light and being warm all at once; like diving into a hot bath after a snowfall or soft sheets after a long day. Relief and a nameless uplifting feeling that radiates through every ilm of her being. 

She wants you to feel more and more of it. To feel more of it, herself. It can be done. You are gifted. Your aether is intense, powerful, of pristine purpose and resolve; you are one whose opponents have every cause for despair. Whose allies know unwavering support. A soul so strong –

So _close to whole –_

You are one who likely knows success even in the most impossible of endeavors. And here you are, lying beneath her, willing and wanting for more of her on you. Writhing at the touch of her _sundered_ soul.

Sitting up, and back, Igeyorhm gazes down at you. The picture she’s created with hands alone, the work of aether and intent. You are gifted and glorious, beautiful to behold in your rapture.

She stares down, and she almost misses how your grasp tightens about her thighs, darting under her robes to play at the sensitive skin just below, gliding just beneath her rear reaching in, in – to the sensitive flesh between her own legs, exploring with fervor, twitching with delight at the discovery of her own wetness.

Her hand whips up, trailing a line over your bared flesh, smearing a line of slick that chills at the touch of the air.

Quickly, with none of her earlier delicacy, you draw your fingers close around her clit, tightening around it in teasing presses. Glee runs through you as you circle her sex, weaving in and out of folds, a hand on her hip to feel her tremble and jerk at your touches.

She clutches at that arm and you draw it around her, curving against her rear. Fingers drawing wide over rounded flesh, tugging and tugging her higher up your body. Drifting, she follows your insistent tug and finds a strange heat building in her cheeks as you settle her hips above your face.

Kneading into her sides, your hands move to cup wide and low over her thighs, surprising strength against dense muscle, easily supporting her weight. You even flick an arm about to brush her robes aside.

Igeyorhm realizes that you have swiped her robes to cover your face; she cannot see you while you work. From the breaths she feels on her sex, it could not be more obvious what you intend. Somehow she finds herself bowed forward, arms at either side of your head. Trembling even before you touch her.

Melting just at the heat of your nearness. When your mouth meets her wetness she is undone, falling forward almost completely, clutching at the sheets. Her thighs tense at once, and yet you hold fast, closing around her. Arms coiling abound her bent legs, keeping her in place. She tightens against the slick heat that opens against her folds and yet you only explore further, unperturbed.

Lips move against slick flesh, kissing as passionately as you had her own mouth. Pursing and pouting over the smooth skin around her entrance, kneading into her, nearly. It’s almost warm and smooth and not at all intrusive, alarming only in its presence which quickly grows welcome as arousal pools to greet you.

Your tongue darts out, lapping easily, and she squirms in your grasp, realizing belatedly the totality of this reversal only now that she is utterly unwilling to tear herself away. Your tongue probes in sinful lashes of delight, hot and burning against her sex that pulses with each stroke.

This she cannot abide; with what coherence remains to her she yanks aside her robe to see your face, eyes staring glassily up at her, intent and focused on your task. Devoted. She shifts her legs to move her arms, brushing fingertips into your hair, watching your eyelids flutter in response, even as you swipe over her clit in response, earning you a gasp.

She feels you smile against her sex, too. Devious creature. And yet all that comes to mind, fleetingly, is how delectable the sight of your smile would be, beneath her.

There’s no time to contemplate conflict; wet, slick muscle traces along her entrance in teasing for just a moment before delving in. She jerks to feel it fill her, not quite piercing – it’s too tender, too yielding, and yet the firmness with which it slides over her insides leaves no room for thought; only near-euphoric delight and novel thrill in the sensation.

The pull of your tongue from her entrance is _divine_ in friction, gliding flush along smooth walls so tightly there is almost the barest hint of dragging, and yet only slick easiness is left behind. She feels herself clenching, coiling about the tip that remains inside, flicking about in whimsy, tickling tremor after tremor from her flesh.

Tightening her fingers in your hair, threading through the strands to distract herself – it’s all in vain. With just a flick of your upper lip over the crest of her sex, you own her as she does you; Igeyorhm cries out her own appeals at your adulation, reduced to whimpers at your attentions.

All of this, and it is nothing compared to when your lips seal around her flesh, encompassing her sex almost entirely, and you _suck._ The tightness against her, tugging at her flesh indescribably, drawing forth the desperate pulse, both of pounding blood and of fervent desire.

How she keens, herself, pouring onto you in a chill you only barely recognize, sharing her release even as the rush of bliss takes her. The way your fingers weaken against her, how she must slide away for herself as you twitch beneath her in unexpected – inexplicable, to your senses – fulfillment.

With unconcealed delight does she watch your chest heave as hers does, the both of you panting openly in the silence of the room.

Idly, as she descends to lie beside you, she draws a hand over your breasts again, not caressing, but just glancing over your skin, slipping over it in a motion satisfying by the very nature of its easy smoothness. She leaves her hand there to stroke over soft flesh, perfect and delightful to the touch. Resting easily beside you as you crest with her on the wave of her climax, your shared pleasure.

The first of many things she would share with you. One so strong in the gift as this. _Seven times rejoined_.

Gilded and guided by her aether and knowledge, pulled along by her fervor and passion. Hers and hers alone, raised up and molded by _her_ hands and no others. A companion who will stand beside her loyally – a companion who does not look at her and miss someone she cannot be. Someone she can never be.

An ally who does not see her as competition for His attention and favor. Who does not see her as _weak. Failed._

This flame she sparks, offers herself up to be consumed by even as she takes her warmth from it. This is neither ignorance nor recklessness – _The thirteenth, lost. It is useless to Him now. We must needs take better precautions,_ they had said, as though it was not even worth it to blame her, for one such as her could not but fail – no.

Igeyorhm is yet the master of her own fate. If the path to her goal does not exist, she shall create one. To dismiss the possibility out of hand without ever having tried; the Unsundered think too highly of themselves. She is a capable instructor – Lahabrea is not yet lost that part of himself, though no one seems to see how much of him is fading.

All of them, fading, in their own ways. Without renewal, without growth – without _promise_ and _hope,_ their cause will be lost to the eons. To Hydaelyn’s Champions, who grow stronger with each Rejoining.

There is no question of your ability. Your aether alone is overwhelming, beyond even your sundered brethren who by rights should be just as powerful. Your gift transcendent. 

She still needs a name, she realizes dimly. How will she find you after this? The thought forms, easily, and her decision is made.

From beside her, she feels you shift, lying on your side, perhaps making to get up. Quickly she slides closer, on her side just behind you, pressing her front into your back. Her other arm snakes around you from beneath, clutching around your front from your back, pulling you into her.

“Ah…?” There’s barely anything left in your lungs, she can tell. 

Igeyorhm roams the front of your body, fingering over familiar territory, valleys and caverns, hands flowing easily over flesh bared to her claims, the press of bones tight to your skin, the angled jut of your hips. Sliding over you in a fluid motion, soothing and cool to your awareness still tingling with flecks of the enticing chill her touch brought.

Nuzzling her nose into your hair, strands parting with the faintest motion, delicate and feathery to the touch. Like sun-warm, fine sand slipping gently over her cheek. In this, and in all things, you are radiant, emitting warmth and heat and a bright, weightless feeling that draws her mood upwards into an easiness she’s not sure she has ever known.

It makes her hands dance over you, her lips lift as you wiggle and exhale what might have been a laugh, had you any air left in you. The way your shoulders shift and settle against her front, tension palpably melting from your bones, flowing over her, energizing. Igniting.

You calm before her, but she knows she can do more. To you. For you. With you. Her fingertips itch, freeze, tickle with possibility, sending little quivers through the flesh she roams.

Sweet anticipation pools in her belly. Close to you as she is, she can feel your readiness, your limits – and how very far from them you are.

How very unexpected it is to your senses when she trails down your abdomen, between legs that she parts with her own, twining easily so that you and she are twisted inextricably. A sound that is neither a whimper nor a whine passes your lips as you feel cool fingertips once again trace along your slit.

With a few moments to rest, you should have recovered enough to resume your chorus, yet her partner lies silent in her arms. Clearly, further service must needs be put forth.

And ever does the Martyr set herself aflame, it if might keep others warm. Aether much spent hums low at her command, rushing over you once more. Stroking delicately at flesh raw and sensitive from her attentions – the remnants of lust rising easily at her touch.

Your legs tighten around her fingers in a gesture that is not so much futile as it is an instinctive reaction. Sex thrumming once more as she grazes over your clit with the barest supplication, you fall back into her embrace, humming high in pleading need.

She presses her thumb into your clit, hard and brief, letting away before it becomes too much, leaving your arousal to pool in its wake, leaking over her hands as divine proof of her efforts. Cloying over her hands in the raw scent of your natural self, strong and overpowering to her senses as any incense.

Your litany resumes again; in warbling noises that strum through your closely pressed forms, waxing and waning with the flow of aether you unconsciously lean into, eagerly seeking _her,_ the touch you so fervently desire. All of it is hers to grant, of her own making, notes drawn out from her presses, pitched by her speed, loudening with her persistence.

“Shall I make you come again?” The low purr of her voice is so hot it’s cold, like a shiver in your ears, “Would that satisfy you?”

Would it satisfy _her?_

Somehow, you suspect the answer is not…

“Yes,” You say anyways.

The response is instant, as terrible as it is beautiful; like ice in your hands, shattering at your touch and melting into glorious sensation, your release bursts out with her next touch. Warmth flooding into you at the contact, even as a heady pulse goes through your sex with every wave of pleasure.

Her fingertip, gentle and tender, keeps contact with your clit, just sitting there, letting you feel the pulse of climax against her. One wave, then another; many pass until you start to feel it needle at you, pervading bliss fading into fierce awareness.

She does not move. Instead her finger draws the slightest of circles, just barely rubbing against you – and the barest of sensation is enough to stroke waves into concentrated desire, the point of lust bright and intense where she touches you.

Somehow, a cooling numbness waits just at the edge where you expect there to be pain. Like an itch you cannot scratch, like sharpness pressing but not cutting, she traces against you, the eager tug of lust returning with fervor, coiling in your lower half. Building. Waiting. Tightening and coursing through you, congregating in heavy pulls of pleasure that follow her fingertip.

“Then,” You can hear the smile in her voice and it heats you like nothing else, even as your clit cries out for mercy, “If you can, once, then surely – you may come twice, yes?”

There are no words, only strangled moans, as she rubs in wide circles that just buzz against the edge of your fulfillment. Playing against jolts of her persistent stimulation that has you curling into yourself while her arm holds you fast against her, breasts pressing into your back, legs twining through yours.

Her body pressing into you from behind; soft, all that grounds you as an electric rush of delight shoots through your lower half, a new release rising to heed her call. Careful fingertips press it into you, kneading pleasure through your folds in an intensity that should overwhelm but does not; you are merely lifted higher and higher, feeling lighter and lighter as her cool touch skims over you.

Between each peak you become aware of the rush of air through your mouth, wide and panting, sore and yet still wanting; you cannot but whimper supplications. If she stops, the tense coils of anticipation she has wound you in will amount to nothing. If she continues, you might just discover if it possible for a person to die of pleasure.

Your arms drift to your chest, holding yourself tightly, hands reaching to wrap around yourself –

She catches your fingers with her tongue, accepting eagerly this communion; her own taste faint over your nails. Swirls her tongue around your forefinger in easy, twirling circles. Hot and slick over the delicate skin of your finger, over the sensitive pads of your fingertips –

Swirls that would not be so terribly _enrapturing_ if she did not also circle your clit with her own clever fingertips, tracing them in time with her tongue. The muscle squirms and laps over your fingers, snaking and wrapping with sinful fluidity, flexing at the very moment she drags her nail daringly over the crest of your tightening climax, already swelling with promise.

Without words, you swear you can hear her tell you: _Come again._

Bright pleasure ignites at her will, bursting forth from where she strokes, strokes, and stokes your lust into fruition, white hot and flowing into her hands. You can feel yourself leaking over her, how slick her fingers are against your sex, gliding over the pulse of your desire with ease.

Her other hand darts up do your mouth, teasing over your lips. Curling over them, into your mouth, filling and pressing down against your tongue. Her intention comes to you without words. Sealing your lips around her fingers, tongue flattening as you obey and suck against them tight instead of crying penance, mercy – anything she will give. Everything she will give.

She tastes like ice.

That taste is all you know as she makes you come again, and again, and _again –_ more times that night than you can count, than you could ever have dreamed of happening. Only in the depths of exhaustion does she part from your sex, arms coiling around you tightly, holding you flush against her.

You’re only vaguely aware of her fingers leaving your mouth, but they must have, at some point, because she has certainly had you cry your throat raw. It occurs to you that for all your moaning, you had never had a _name_ to say.

Such a shame.

When you awake, you will ask her.

When you awake, she is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I G E Y O R H M 
> 
> She's hot and you should say it. Stop sleeping on the most beautiful, competent, badass and unfortunately probably the best-adjusted Ascian there is. FAILURE VOID GIRL IS A FAILURE BUT SHE STILL TRIES VERY HARD AND IS VERY EXCITED TO DO HER BEST. I LOVE HER VERY MUCH AND YOU SHOULD, TOO. 
> 
> No seriously, please love Igeyorhm, she deserves it. Most of the oneshots won't be this long, I don't think, but I have three more planned and then a finale/ending thing. This piece chronologically is FIRST in the series; it takes place before Lahabrea's does. 
> 
> Thank you for reading... and for sharing the love of precious frosty disaster Ascian <3


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